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No Time for Love (the sequel to Last Year Before Reality) Excerpt

by Conrad Prophet

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Chapter 1

Bridgette waited patiently outside of Gregory Hill’s office, staring at the portrait of a white Jesus Christ. Rene always hated that picture, she thought to herself. It had been three years since Bridgette and Assistant Minister Gregory Hill last talked. Their last meeting ended in a heated argument, and she prayed this one would end more amicably.

Bible Study had just ended. Minister Hill and his secretary were preparing to leave for the evening, and Bridgette was his last appointment.

“You can go in, Attorney Tate,” the secretary said.

“Please call me, Bridgette,” she said, standing up and straightening her suit.

“Well! Well! Well,” could be heard when Bridgette entered the sparsely furnished office. “To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing my old and dear friend, Bridgette, or should I refer to you as Attorney Tate?” he asked, reaching to hug her.

“Minister Hill,” Bridgette said, hugging him back and slowly pulling away.

“Yes, have a seat,” Greg said, pointing to a chair in front of his desk, while he walked around the desk to his chair.

“Congratulations on your stellar performance as a prosecuting attorney, and thank you for volunteering your time, energy and wisdom as a counselor at Amber’s Safe Haven. You have really touched the lives of those abused women and children. I would have congratulated you sooner, but we haven’t seen you at church in what is it now, three years?”

Bridgette shifted uneasily in her chair. She already knew where Greg’s com­ment was leading. She looked around the office that was only furnished with three chairs, a couch on which Greg slept on many occasions, and an old desk with a family picture of Greg, his wife, Amber, and their two children, Gregory, Jr. and Crystal. Behind Greg was a bookshelf that held almost every version of the Bible known to man.

The book that caught her eye was a copy of Rene’s book, Last Year Before Reality, which was displayed proudly next to a picture of Greg and Rene. Unable to elude Greg’s accusation and his engaging stare, she looked at him.

“Minister Hill,” Bridgette said.

“Please call me, Greg. We’ve been friends since elementary school,” he said, attempting to defuse the situation, but knowing it was already too late.

“For your information, Gregory, I no longer attend your church, but rest as­sured that I am having the Bread of Life fed to me, three times a week.”

“I know where you attend services, Bridgette,” he said, raising his voice.

Bridgette placed her hand in front of his face. “Here we go again!” she said, to stop Greg from uttering another word. “I didn’t come here to discuss my salvation, Gregory. Have you seen him?”

“Well, I’m fine, and so are Amber and the kids. Thank you for asking,” Greg said with a smile.

“I apologize, Gregory. That was rude of me, but in my profession we tend to cut to the chase. Again, have you seen him?”

“Seen who?” he asked, knowing to whom she was referring.

“You know who I’m talking about,” she said, becoming aggravated. “Rene, damn it!”

“Sister Bridgette, don’t forget where you are. This is the Lord’s house, and I don’t appreciate you using such foul language.”

Bridgette slowly lowered her head and lifted it back up. “I apologize, Gregory,” she said, with tears forming in her eyes. “I just miss him so much that it hurts to the core of my spirit.”

“I love Rene like a brother, but I must tell you that he isn’t right for you. As a couple, you are not equally yoked.”

Greg watched closely, while the words he spoke caused Bridgette’s shoulders to fall like those of a child that was being scolded by a parent. It hurt him to tell her the truth about a man that she had loved since her senior year of high school. Bridgette and Rene were like his sister and brother, but he couldn’t continue to ignore and not protest against a union that should never have happened.

“Don’t preach to me, Gregory! I’m not here for a sermon or consultation, and I don’t recall asking you if we were equally yoked! I asked you if you’ve seen him!” she screamed, reaching into her purse for some tissues to wipe away her tears.

Greg could feel her pain, and realized that what he was saying was probably cold and insensitive, but as her brother in Christ, he felt that it was his duty before God to administer wisdom to her, in season or out of season.

“Isn’t it about time you moved on with your life? You are a beautiful, suc­cessful, chaste and virtuous woman. You are the daughter of an Illinois Supreme Court Judge. One day, you can become a judge, too.”

Bridgette didn’t respond.

“Men have been waiting in line for you, and the Lord would let you have your pick. But here you are, stuck on Rene Anthony Davis. He’s no good for you. You need a God-fearing man. Not an angry black man. Your friend, Kevon MacMil­lan, is a prominent attorney at a prestigious Chicago law firm. He would make an excellent husband.”

“How can you tell me what my heart needs? You married Amber, your high school sweetheart. Why can’t I have the one I love? God has allowed me to accom­plish many goals in my life these past years, but now I’m focused on the one area in my life that I have denied all these years. You can’t possibly understand.”

“I feel your pain, Bridgette, but Rene has issues. Severe issues. More issues than the Bible has books. He hasn’t been the same since graduation, and he wasn’t wrapped too tight before that,” he said in a solemn voice.

“Who doesn’t have issues, Gregory?” Bridgette asked, seizing the moment to defend the man she loves. “Like you always say, as a Christian, you are either in a storm, coming out of a storm, or headed for a storm.”

“That’s true for most Christians, but Rene isn’t a Christian. He’s either in a tornado, a hurricane, or an earthquake. Throughout his life, he is always ex­periencing something catastrophic. The reason why is because he doesn’t obey God’s will.”

“At least he isn’t a hypocrite like 90 percent of the members of this church. On Judgment Day, Rene isn’t going to have to worry about where he’s going,” Bridgette said, sarcastically.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Rene is schizophrenic, and he has the papers to prove it. There is a constant battle between Rene and Rad, Rene’s alter ego. Regretfully, I think Rad is winning.”

“I don’t know Rad. I don’t care what anyone says, I am always going to love Rene, and he’ll always love me. I’m the only one who understands Rene. We were destined to be together.”

“If you are destined to be with Rene, it’s because Satan desires it, not God. I do not condone a sister in Christ associating with an atheist and angry black man. He is unpredictable and unstable. Only God and Satan know what he is capable of doing,” Greg advised, realizing that his words were in vain. “Can you please tell me why good girls love bad boys? Don’t answer that,” he said, lowering his eyes. “Bridgette, to answer your question, no, I haven’t seen him. If I had seen him, I wouldn’t tell you anyway.”

“I’m not trying to hear your view of how I should live my life. I really don’t care what you condone. You’re not my spiritual or natural father. I’m not Little Greg or Crystal. I’m a grown, saved woman,” she said sarcastically, regaining her confidence and composure, while she stood up. “When you see Rene, tell him that I want to see him.” What if I don’t?” Greg asked.

“If you decide not to tell him, we will find out who Rene loves more, after I tell him everything you’ve said to me. Since you claim he is an angry black man who doesn’t believe in God anyway, I don’t think you should be playing with him.”

“Sister Tate, I wish I could say that I enjoyed seeing you again, but I can’t.”

“The feeling is mutual, Minister Hill. As long as you do as I’ve asked, you don’t have to worry about seeing me again, anytime soon,” she said, walking toward the door.

He wanted to stop her before she left, but instead he remained seated, staring at the picture of his family. Tears began to flow from his eyes. He reminisced about their graduation on June 17, 1983. It was as vivid as if it happened yesterday. The courtyard exploded in gunfire.

When the gunshots ended, life all but ended for Rene. Greg immediately fell down on his knees, praying that God would soften the heart of a man who did not have much to live for, and relieve the pain that only Christ himself could bare. Secretly, Greg hoped that Rene’s love for Bridgette would be enough to bring him back to God, and again become the best friend and strong black man that all who knew him, loved. Deep down, Greg had his money on a snowball’s chance in hell over Rene ever returning to the person he used to be. Still, Greg continued to pray for Rene, because he truly believed that prayer did change things.

Bridgette’s phone began to ring as she reached her car. “Hello?” she answered in a distant voice, because her mind was consumed by thoughts of the valid statements Greg had just ministered to her. She wondered if waiting for Rene was a waste of her time. She’d been in other relationships that led to a dead end, mainly because her heart was with Rene, and nothing could change that. There was no one who came close to complementing and enhancing her life the way Rene did. For some reason, Rene was able to touch her heart, mind and soul like no other man could.

“I’m sorry, Larry, my mind was somewhere else. Thank you for being there for me today. How is your shoulder?”

“It was dislocated, but the doctor was able to snap it back in place. I saw Bad Boys with Will Smith and Martin Lawrence. Will Smith’s character got flat-out busted on the shoulder with a sledgehammer, and he didn’t even have a mark on his shirt. I try to break down a door, and I damn near kill myself! Ain’t that about a bitch? Now, the doctor has me on some damn pain pills that could put an elephant to sleep! More importantly, I made it to the restroom just in time. My damn stomach was about to explode. I forgot that seafood doesn’t agree with my digestive system, but Monica makes the baddest crab cakes in the world.”

“Oh,” Bridgette said, with her mind still on her conversation with Greg.

“Did you know that punk I knocked the fuck out called the police on us?”

“Don’t even worry about it. Don’t forget who my father is,” Bridgette said, in a matter of fact tone.

“I’m not worried about the police. It’s Rad that scares the hell out of me. There is something cold, sinister and ruthless about him. It’s almost like a part of him is dead. He has no emotions. No love. No nothing. Almost like he could care less if he lived or died,” Larry said, pausing for a moment, to gain his courage. “Bridgette, I always have and always will love you. Don’t worry about anything, I will always be here for you. Always.”

“That really raised my spirits. Thanks for calling me to let me know you’re okay. I’ll call you the next time I need you. I love you too Larry,” she said, hang­ing up, and gently placing her head on the steering wheel and allowing her tears to flow freely.

Bridgette’s heart was torn asunder. She was at a crossroads in her life. It had been eleven, long and difficult years since she and Rene first fell in love. She would soon have to make the biggest decision of her life. There was a huge void in her life that, regardless of the omnipresence of God, could only be filled by the love of a man. Not the love of just any man, but only the love of Rene Anthony Davis.

Chapter 2

“Hello, Mr. Thornton, may I speak to Mr. Littlejohn?” the caller requested, irritated.

“How may I help you?” Mr. Littlejohn asked, when he answered the telephone.

“Mr. Littlejohn, although I just met you, you are well on your way to being on my shit list. Trust me, you don’t want to be on that list. I’m a visitor to the Motor City, and to show my appreciation for the unique fashions that can only be found in Detroit, I just dropped three grand at your establishment. But I can’t even rely on you to give me the right directions to my next destination.”

“Wait, wait, wait, sir,” Mr. Littlejohn said, in a voice that made the caller laugh.

“I told you to go straight down Monroe, turn right on Grand River, and then make a left on Lafayette. Where are you now, sir?”

“I’m on I-375, going south, Mr. Littlejohn.”

“Don’t worry, sir. The simple directions I just gave you will lead you straight to the cemetery, without any further problems. You can trust me on this, sir. By the way, how do you like the suits and accessories you purchased? I told you I would work with you to help you create your own signature look.”

“Whatever, Mr. Littlejohn. You’re lucky that I have nothing but love for you and you make spending money in your establishment an enjoyable experience. If it wasn’t for your energetic spirit and your down-to-earth way of making custom­ers feel like family when they come to shop, I assure you that the next time I visit Detroit, it would be a very unpleasant experience for you. Have a nice life, and I’ll see you when I see you,” the caller said, exiting off of I-375 and, unbeknownst to him, passing the Lafayette exit.

The visitor to the Motor City turned his four-door, black on black, Jaguar XJS right on Jefferson and headed west. After passing Woodward Avenue for the second time, he realized that he was going in the wrong direction. He continued to drive west until Jefferson ended in front of Cobo Arena. When he reached the corner, he made a right turn, then another right, which put him back on Wood­ward Avenue. He turned and drove past the display of the enormous black fist that is suspended in the middle of Jefferson, a dedication to Detroit’s hometown heavyweight boxing champion, Joe Louis. Turning left on Jefferson, he passed Hart Plaza, the tunnel to Canada, and the Renaissance Center. Twenty minutes later, he was back where he started when he exited from I-375.

Driving slowly down what was now East Jefferson, the visitor suspected that he still wasn’t close to his destination. This being his first visit to Detroit, he wasn’t sure if the stories he heard about the city over the years were true, or just exag­gerated, urban legends. As he pulled into the parking lot of a party store, he was not the least bit intimidated about Detroit allegedly being the ‘murder capital’ of the United States. Being raised on the south side of Chicago and surviving life and death encounters in Cabrini Green, anything Detroit had to offer him would probably be considered trivial. His life up to this point had been a journey through hell anyway. He already knew it was not him that should fear Detroit, but Detroit that should fear him.

Immediately upon stepping out of his Jaguar, the visitor noticed the group of people who were gathered in front of the store checking him out like he was a celebrity. He was wearing a full-length, Pelle Pelle, soft black leather coat, a black three-piece, pin-striped, tailor-made suit, with black ’gators. Everyone noticed how the diamonds from the letters ‘J,’ ‘V’, and ‘M’on his medallion sparkled as the fading sun hit them, and the flash of the two-carat diamond resting in his left ear. When he opened the door to go into the party store, he lifted his Cartier sunglasses to look at the time on his Presidential, gold baguette Rolex watch. The sun was beginning to set, and he wanted to be heading west on I-94 to Chicago before nightfall.

The visitor didn’t pay attention to the commotion that had started in the parking lot as he entered the store to ask the cashier for directions.

“Step away from the vehicle!” was heard when one of the men in the parking lot pressed his hands against the rear driver’s side window of the Jaguar to see what was in the back seat.

“Step away from the vehicle!” the car alarm announced for the second time.

“Are you deaf, Negro?” the visitor asked, walking out of the store and deac­tivating the car alarm.

“My bad, Boss,” the man said backing away with his hands up. “You got some tight gear from Hot Sam’s, The Broadway and Louis the Hatter in the backa yo’ cold Jag. I’m thinkin’ it’s time to check it in,” the man stated, in what he thought was a menacing tone.

“What?” the visitor asked, reaching behind him to pull out his .380 Larson, but stopped when he noticed a white and blue police cruiser pull into the parking lot. “Negro, you don’t even know me! I advise you to step the fuck off,” he said, getting into his car.

“Don’t pull off, Boss,” the man said, tapping on the window. “Silk wanna holla atcha.”

The visitor pushed the button to roll down the window with his left hand, while his right hand firmly gripped his weapon. “Whoever the hell this Silk character is, tell him to kiss my black ass! I don’t have time to play with other people’s children, so I suggest that you raise the fuck up off my car before I run your black ass over!” The visitor put the car in reverse so he could exit the parking lot, while the police entered the store.

“Silk! Did you see how that fly nigga disrespected you like you wasn’t shit?” the man asked, peeping into the partially lowered rear window of a big-body Mercedes 500 Series.

“The last nigga that fronted on you like that ended up on the six o’clock news.”

“Yeah, Derrick, I saw that nigga. But it’s no problem. This is what’s about to go down,” Silk said, motioning to the man to get into the car. “Derrick, you and Dante follow him. When you get the chance, make that nigga check in every­thing, and run his pockets.”

“Silk, why do we have to do that?” Dante asked, looking back from the front seat. “His plates are from out of state. He don’t know who you are.”

“Shut up, bitch!” Silk yelled. “Derrick, when you get finished with him, make sure my name, and Detroit, is carved in his chest!”

“I can do that, Silk,” Derrick said, smiling and nodding his head.

The visitor pulled out of the parking lot, not thinking twice about the incident that just occurred. He made a left turn on Jefferson and headed west. He then made a right turn on John Bradby Drive and stopped at the red light on Lafayette. He was soon turning into the driveway of Elmwood Cemetery, the final resting place for many notable and well-known people in the city of Detroit.

The visitor slowly drove around the cemetery, marveling at all of the enor­mous headstones, crosses and what appeared to be monuments modeled after the shrines dedicated to the pharaohs of Egypt. He drove across a small bridge and down a narrow road until he located the headstone he was looking for. It was exactly where Bridgette told him it would be. The visitor reached under the front seat and pulled out a titanium gold .44 Magnum Desert Eagle pistol.

I better take this with me, just in case some night of the living dead bullshit pop off, he said to himself, as he got out of the car and looked around.

“Knowledge, Knowledge,” he said, slowly approaching the headstone. “Man, I didn’t know you had it going on like this,” he said looking around. “You’re buried amongst people with deep pockets. By the spelling of some of the names, it’s obvi­ous that some of them are white. I know you’re turning over in your grave. Shit, I thought your wife would have buried you in the backyard,” he said, chuckling.

“Knowledge, life has been a total disaster ever since that day,” the visitor said, trying to suppress the tears and thoughts of the unforgettable high school graduation, eleven years ago.

“You shouldn’t have done it, Knowledge Those young black students at Rockwell High School needed you. My life was not worth you giving your life for.” The visitor was silent for a moment. If he had spoken another word, it would have caused him to break down. He took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry for waiting all these years to come and pay my respects. I wanted to come to your funeral with the rest of the students, but after all of the pande­monium went down, my head has not been the same. I heard that your funeral was off the hook. Famous singers, professional basketball players, politicians, and even some white people, attended your funeral. You weren’t an Uncle Tom on the down low, were you?” he asked laughing.

“Knowledge, I did as you expected. I earned my bachelor’s and master’s degrees in Business and Finance. My financial portfolio is extremely tight because of my investments. I’m already retired at 30. Now, all I do is travel around the United States handling my business. If I told you what my business was, I would have to kill you,” he said, hearing the crunching of leaves behind him, but ignoring them.

“Let me give you the 411 on some people. Our dream girl, the lovely Phyllis Hyman, committed suicide in June of this year. Greg and Amber got married right after they graduated from college. Clarence is a Chief Warrant Officer in the Army. He and Sabrina got married. I have a son named Solomon, but …”

“Time to check it in, Boss!” Derrick said, pointing a .38 Special revolver at the visitor from 15 feet away.

“This ain’t right,” Dante said, with fear in his voice.

“Shut up!” Derrick yelled.

“I don’t know what time it is brothers, but this ain’t the kind of party you think it is,” the visitor said, not turning around. “I don’t know how you roll in Detroit, but where I’m from, we give a person the benefit of the doubt.”

“What the fuck is you talkin’ bout, nigga?” Derrick asked.

“I’m going to pretend like neither one of you ever existed. I’m going to let both of you to walk away, and then I’m going to finish paying respects to a good friend who gave his life for me.”

“Fuck all that noise!” Derrick yelled.

“Come on, brothers, it doesn’t have to go down like this,” the visitor said. “I just went to the Million Man March two weeks ago, and this is not how broth­ers are supposed to act. This black-on-black crime has to stop,” the visitor said, attempting to reason out of compassion, not fear.

“I was there. I agree with you, sir. Brothers gonna work it out. I’m ghost,” Dante said, quickly turning and walking toward the car.

“Where the fuck you think you goin’?” Derrick asked, frustrated.

“I’m out! The man hasn’t done anything to us. I’m not being an accessory to the killing of no man. Definitely not an innocent black man that hasn’t done jack to anyone.”

“If we don’t roll this nigga, Silk gon’ kill both of us,” Derrick said, ner­vously.

“Is that how it’s laying?” the visitor asked, disappointed.

“Yeah, nigga, so it’s time to check in all yo’ loot,” Derrick said, now aiming his gun at the back of the visitor’s head.

There was a thunderous noise and a violent flash of light. Before anyone knew what happened, smoke and fire tore through the back of the visitor’s coat as he fired his Desert Eagle into Derrick’s midsection, knocking him against a tree and almost cutting him in half, before he could get a shot off. Dante froze in his tracks, as the infrared beam zeroed in on his forehead.

“So, what’s it going to be?” the visitor asked. “You can take me to this person you call Silk, or you can race that dead bastard over there and see who’s going to make it to hell first. You better hurry up and decide, because your partner already has a two minute head start on you.”

“Who’s driving?” Dante responded, nervously, to the “no brainer” question.

“Wait right here. Take one step and I’ll smoke your ass!” the visitor said, walking back to Knowledge’s grave.

“Knowledge, I’m outta here. I doubt if I’ll have the opportunity to get back this way. No matter where I go in this world, trouble seems to find me. It looks like I’m going to be a marked man before I leave Detroit tonight. It’s been real. When you get to heaven, tell all the people that we know I said hello, because I’m sure I won’t be making it to the reunion up there. Rest in peace, Knowledge.”

The visitor walked up to Dante and grabbed him around the neck with his right hand, and placed the gun against his temple with his left hand. “It’s time to ride, bitch,” he said, pushing Dante towards the car. The visitor opened the passenger side door for him.

“Don’t sit on my books,” the visitor warned, taking off his coat and hurrying around the car to enter from the driver’s side. “By the way, somebody is paying for my coat!” he said, tossing it in the back seat.

“Are you a teacher?” Dante asked.

The visitor didn’t answer. His eyes were blazing, and his head throbbed with pain. Again, death had entered his life. It was something that he despised, but also something to which he had become immune.

Dante instructed the visitor to turn right out of the cemetery, and drive past the Circle Drive Commons Apartments. In no time, they were headed east on I-94. They came up on the Chalmers exit and made a left.

“Where are we going?” the visitor asked, finally breaking the silence.

“You said you wanted me to take you to Silk. That’s where we’re going,” Dante said, uneasily.

“Tell me, young man. Why are you caught up in the street life? You seem to be intelligent, and you could probably have a successful future. Why do you indulge in a lifestyle that almost guarantees that you will be dead or in jail before you reach 25?”

“Sir, I’m not in it that deep. I’m just trying to get my hustle on so I can finish my first year of pre-law at University of Detroit, and go to law school at University of Michigan. When I pass the bar, I want to be a defense attorney like Johnnie Cochran or Thurgood Marshall.”

“Those are some commendable goals, but this is the wrong way to go about it. The way it looks right now, your obituary will read that you had big dreams,” the visitor said, in a voice that made Dante tremble.

“Sir, you don’t have to kill me. I’m not ready to die. I had planned on giving my life to the Lord next month,” he said, almost pleading for his life.

“You should’ve thought about that before you followed me to the cemetery with that other Negro,” the visitor said, without any compassion.

“I’m too young to die, sir.”

The visitor didn’t respond to Dante’s last statement.

“Sir, make a left at the next corner.”

The visitor cautiously drove down the street. All he saw were what appeared to be abandoned and burned down houses. He looked at Dante again. Dante saw the puzzled look on his face.

“On the real tip, this part of town is called Crackville, USA. Silk runs one of his many crack operations out of this house,” Dante said, signaling for him to pull up in front of what appeared to be an abandoned house.

The visitor ignored him and drove past the house, surveying the area, making a right turn at the corner.

“Sir, are you going to kill me? If you are, just get it over with.”

The visitor reached for his gun.

“But sir, I’m not too proud to beg,” Dante said, as sweat began to trickle down the side of his face. Dante noticed an ever so slight grin appear and quickly disappear on the visitor’s face.

The visitor continued to drive slowly down the street and made another right turn, circling the block.

“Young man, I actually like you. You remind me of someone I know. I really don’t want to kill you, but you saw me kill your partner. I believe that the best witness is a dead witness.”

“Partner? What partner? Kill? Who did you kill, sir? I have never seen you before in my life. Actually, all of this right here …,” he said, creating an imagi­nary perimeter with his hands. “None of this shit is happening. I’m in a terrible ass nightmare, and I’m trying my hardest to wake up before I piss on myself,” Dante reasoned.

“I like those answers,” the visitor said, smiling for the first time. “It’s all about trust. If you decide to turn state’s evidence, I’m sure to catch a case. You know when we go into that crackhouse looking for Silk, the body count will probably be high. How can I trust you, knowing everything that you do?”

“Sir, I really don’t care who you kill in that house. As long as Jesus Christ and my mother are not in that house, you can go on a killing spree. If my crackhead sister and brother are in there, I’ll kill them for you, because I’m tired of them breaking into our house stealing stuff,” Dante said, serious.

The visitor smiled again. “I’m going to ask you a series of questions. If you answer them correctly, the odds of you living to see another day will increase exponentially.”

The visitor asked him his address, phone number, social security number, his parents’ names, the names of his siblings, and their nicknames, his high school G.P.A., his current G.P.A., and the cost of classes per credit hour at University of Detroit. Dante answered all of the questions, without hesitation.

“You answered the questions pretty quickly,” the visitor said. “Everything that you just told me is now permanently etched in my memory. I’m going to ask you the same questions again. If one of the previous answers change, I’m going to have you laying in a pool of blood with everyone else in that house.”

“Bring it, sir,” Dante said, with confidence.

The visitor asked him all of the same questions in a different order, and all the answers were the same. The visitor smiled, as they pulled up in front of the house. From the only street light that was working on the street, the visitor could almost see the house clearly. Of all of the houses on the block, this one was the only one that was somewhat maintained. There was junk mail and grocery store flyers scattered on the porch and in the yard. The only thing about this house that made the visitor apprehensive was that the front windows were boarded up, and there was a security gate on the front door.

“Both of us are getting out of the car. Don’t even think about running. Before you’re able to get five feet away, I’ll make your head explode like a water balloon,” the visitor said, reaching into the glove compartment to open the trunk.

They quietly closed the car doors, walked to the back of the car and lifted the trunk. The visitor unlatched a special compartment on the trunk and a panel came down. What Dante saw made him back up two steps. Attached to the panel was an SA58 Tactical Carbine; a Russian AK 47; an M16A1 Rifle with a grenade launcher; a 20-gauge Automatic Riot Pump; two .357 Glocks, one with a tacti­cal light, and one with a infrared beam; two .9mm Glocks, one with a tactical light, and one with an infrared beam; four low-radius hand grenades; and four flash bang grenades.

Damn, we tried to do a 187 on a damn hit man. I’m dead. Dante thought to himself.

The visitor removed his suit jacket and neatly folded it. He put on a pair of black gloves and two shoulder holsters. He then removed the .357 Glock with the tactical light and placed a silencer on it. Then he removed the .9mm Glock with infrared beam and placed a silencer on it, too. After he put the guns in the holsters, he reached behind him and pulled out a .380 Larson and checked to make sure it was loaded before he put it back in the holster attached to his belt. He attached two low-radius hand grenades to his belt, and then threw Dante a pair of gloves.

“Don’t lose one like O.J.,” the visitor said, smiling.

While they where walking toward the house, they heard the sirens of fire engines and police cars, close by.

“What’s up? The city burning down?” the visitor asked.

“Don’t you know what tonight is?” Dante asked.

“The night you’re going to die if you don’t stop bullshittin’,” the visitor warned, while they stood on the sidewalk in front of the house. They heard Notorious B.I.G.’s album, Ready to Die, blasting from the house.

“It’s October 30th, Devil’s Night,” Dante answered nervously.

“Mister, you wanna buy some guts or hot mouth?” a crackhead asked, approach­ing the visitor from the darkness. Before she could come one step closer, the visitor had the infrared beam positioned on her right eye, temporarily blinding her.

“Guts? What the hell is she talking about?” the visitor asked, with the red dot on top of the lady’s uncombed head, as she kneeled on the ground.

“Sex, sir,” Dante answered.

The visitor was immediately repulsed. Grabbing the lady by the arm, he yanked her off the ground with so much force that her feet were two feet off the ground before her frail, 95-pound body touched the sidewalk again.

“Heifer, you don’t know me. I’m going to give you some advice. Don’t you ever run up on somebody you don’t know with that nasty ass proposal again. That’s beyond nasty. That’s just plain stank. If I wasn’t busy, I would help you kick your crack habit by kicking your ass,” the visitor said, reaching in his front pocket. “Take this money and get yourself together. If I ever see you again, you’d better be looking like a respectable black woman, instead of a crackhead whore. Now get the hell out of my face before I put you out of your misery,” he warned, almost causing the lady to trip over her own feet as she quickly ran away.

“Sir, on a scale of one to ten, she used to be a fifteen, before she got addicted to crack.”

“Anyway, this is how it’s going down,” the visitor said, dismissing the incident that occurred with the lady. “Your job is to get me in the house. Once I’m in, I’m going to settle my score with my new friend, Silk, and we’re even.”

“I’m cool with that,” Dante said, wondering if the visitor was going to keep his word. They walked up the steps, and Dante banged on the door.

“Who the fuck is it?” someone asked from inside the house.

“It’s me,” Dante said, stepping back so the person could see him.

The man inside quickly unlocked the door. When Dante stepped into the house, the visitor pushed him to the floor and …

Do you want to know what happens next? If so, order No Time for Love now.

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